


Crash

by cheyennesunrise



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1413778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheyennesunrise/pseuds/cheyennesunrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing wrong with needing someone. Set after "Most Likely To...". John comes to visit a rather distressed Harold in DC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash

**Author's Note:**

> Set after "Most Likely To...". First fic in a while. WIP, may evolve into a smut fic later.
> 
> I think that I rambled a bit, but I hope that you like it!

It had all happened so fast.

Harold remembered the feel of the cold, slick metal of the safe under his fingertips, and he heard the _click_ of the latch as he turned the dial to the last number.

_Done_.

His remembered his wonderment, and the audible sigh of relief that had followed, and then-

_Collier_.

And with that, the world had frozen, spilling a million crystallized numbers through Harold’s neural highways: codes, probabilities, the numbers to the safe-

Harold was standing face to face with a man who knew so much, a man who described the Machine with the twin emotions of awe and disgust, a man who was on the verge of discovering it all.

Harold remembered the way that he had stared at that gun and held his breath until it was a bilious lump in his throat.

He was a man of uncommon mettle, but he had always hated guns, _always_ , and-

Harold shook his head and stilled himself.

He was alone his hotel suite, surrounded by the comforting din of the laptops’ cooling fans, and he released a breath.

Fusco was heading back to New York, and Mr. Reese would be here any moment, _or would he_ , and Harold ignored the voices and the sound of John falling out of that window and the jarring image of that gun ever fixed at his forehead.

He lifted a shaking hand to his temple and rubbed spirals into the tender skin.

Spirals, whorls and repeating numbers, Nautilus shells and the perfect predictability of the Fibonacci sequence.

_Everything was going to be OK_.

Mr. Reese would be there soon.

John.

_Where are you, Mr. Reese_?

Harold wasn’t weak. Needing someone was never a sign of weakness.

No, it was a strength, the quiet, subtle strength of self-knowledge, and Harold was standing on the precipice of a new life.

This was his second chance, he thought, the life after Grace and Nathan, the transition from Harold the ever-alone to Harold the partner, Harold the friend…

He cared too much, treasured too much.

Collier had almost taken that away from him. That car bomb could’ve taken it away from him too.

Suddenly, the numbers were too much, the variables too great.

Harold felt the intense need to see John again, and he screwed his eyes shut and prayed-

_Prayed_.

And, in a moment of divine intervention, his phone buzzed with that familiar tri-tone chirp, and he saw John’s message: “I’m here.”

Harold let out a sob of relief, and he smiled a little because it almost sounded like a laugh, but _who really cared_?

Mr. Reese was there. John was coming up the stairs to see _him_ and him alone.

Harold rushed to the door and ignored the searing pain in his leg. He saw the latch turn, and his eyes froze on John, his John, and the world hiccuped on its axis.

“Harold? Are you okay?”

John’s voice was soft, but his eyes were bright with concern and affection and _need_.

Harold’s eyes widened as John took two long steps and pulled him into a wordless hug. He traced a hand over John’s back and rested it tentatively on the taller man’s shoulder.

“Yes, Mr. Reese, I-,” Harold faltered. His voice was muffled by John’s dark Polartec, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered. John released Harold’s shoulder sand held him at arm length. He surveyed the older man’s sleep-heavy eyes and grey complexion.

“You need to rest, Harold.” John’s voice was firm, but his touch was light, and he kept his eyes locked on Harold.

“We don’t have time, John. Collier-,” Harold began.

“What did Collier do to you?” John asked in a low, dangerous voice. There was something raw and possessive to it, and it stirred something inside of Harold.

“He didn’t hurt me, Mr. Reese. He made me give him the files, and he-he had a gun on me,” Harold said softly. His eyes widened at his admission, but he also felt an odd twinge of relief at his candor as he relaxed in John’s arms.

John fell silent for a few moments. “Harold, these people wouldn’t hesitate to kill you. I know that you were doing what you thought was necessary, but _please_ ,” John paused, and his lips were inches from Harold’s ear.

“Don’t do that without me ever again.”

“I will certainly try to be more careful, Mr. Reese,” Harold said quietly. He dropped his gaze and swallowed hard.

“You should exercise more caution before jumping out of a window. Unnecessary defenestration is never pretty, Mr. Reese,” he added tersely.

John cracked a grin.

“Tossing out the big words again, Finch?” he smirked.

Harold’s face fell. “I’m not being facetious, Mr. Reese! Your life is not expendable. Please,” he implored, and John gave him a gentle pat on the arm.

“I’ll try to be more careful,” he grinned.

John dropped his head to Harold’s eye level, and the air between them was alive with an odd organic magnetism that pulled them closer and closer together.

It was the same force that made Harold flick his tongue across his dry lips as they hovered inches from John’s open mouth.

There was an audible moan, and then Harold pressed his lips to John’s, formality be damned, and he tilted his head back to accommodate the artful twist of John’s tongue around his own.

Everything flashed before his eyes again, and this time, John’s face dominated his thoughts, his dying thoughts, the last thing he ever pictured or thought or felt before the gun went off.

Harold pulled away, and he felt John’s shoulder straighten in surprise.

“What’s wrong, Harold?” he asked quickly.

“Nothing, John. I was just thinking-,” Harold trailed off.

“It’s over. I’m here,” John whispered, and Harold felt himself relax.

“ _We_ are here,” Harold murmured, and he felt John’s arms encircling him once more.

“You know, Harold,” John began. His eyelashes brushed Harold’s temple, and the older man shivered.

“My dossier said that I was the Mattress King, right? Want to find out if I live up to that name?”

John’s words were cool and sibilant on Harold’s cheek, and the implication made his eyes widen.

“I suppose we should, Mr. Reese,” Harold said quickly.

“That’s King John,” he retorted, and Harold raised an eyebrow.

“Fine, Your Majesty,” he said with a grin.

Harold nodded in the direction of the bedroom, and then it was John's turn to gape.

"After you, Mattress King."


End file.
